Chapter 1
Regulus didn’t see the sun very often, one of many glaring differences between him and Sirius. Sirius had gotten progressively more tan during his time at Hogwarts and teased Regulus about his pale complexion relentlessly. It’s not like it was his fault he was stuck in this fucking house. If he wasn’t at Grimmauld Place, he was in the dungeons of Hogwarts or the dimly lit Slytherin common room. He occasionally found himself outside for Quidditch practice, but he could have sworn that the sun deliberately slipped behind a curtain of clouds whenever he stepped outside.
Sitting on the stairs, Regulus absently traced his fingers along the raised patterns of the wallpaper, outlining a small ray of light on the wall that had slipped through the heavy curtains. The corridors in the house all looked the same, endless stretches of dark wood paneling, the only identifiable features being the scuffs on the hardwood floors, the dents in the wall, and of course the occasional portrait or mounted house-elf head. Honestly, it was like a maze, and light was rare here, almost like a trespasser in its own right. Regulus found himself lingering on it, as though absorbing every trace might somehow lift the weight pressing on his chest.
Sitting there, Regulus was waiting to be summoned. He was heading back for his fifth year at Hogwarts, and naturally, was going to be escorted in a manner befitting a Black. Appearances were everything after all. He’d soon be meeting his cousins and Narcissa’s fiancé, Lucius Malfoy, to arrive at Platform 9¾ together. Merlin, he hoped they won’t see Sirius. Neither party would make a scene but Regulus would ultimately bear the consequences of any kind of reminder of Black family ‘disgrace’.
At least he gets to see Pandora, Docras, Barty, and Evan. If you had told Regulus years ago that he would find something even remotely resembling a family, he would have laughed in your face and called you a fucking idiot. But here they were, and they understood him.
Not even Regulus Black could maintain his famously cool and guarded masquerade forever. The cracks had been inevitable, and they first appeared the night Sirius left. He begged and cried before he left the screaming, the slamming of doors, and flooed to the Rosiers. The Rosier home wasn’t exactly a sanctuary, but Pandora’s room became his. Sneaking in, he collapsed, utterly broken. It was the only time he’d allowed himself to be truly vulnerable and Pandora had been there to catch him. She held him, and let him cry before she helped him piece his mask back together, preparing him for his return to Grimmauld Place.
Regulus shivered thinking about that night. He hadn’t escaped unscathed from his mother’s rage, and she sent him to bed with a cold embrace. At that moment he felt the weight of the Black legacy, the morals, the ideologies, all of it, falling on his shoulders as he watched the smoldering spot on the tapestry over his mother's shoulder.
A sharp pop startled him from his thoughts. Kreacher stood beside him, snapping his fingers to make the trunk vanish. “Time to go, Master Regulus. You have been summoned.”
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Regulus said, rising to his feet. “Floo? House-elf? Do you know the plan?”
“I believe it’s a Portkey, sir. Your family is waiting in the Study.”
Of course, the study. Where else would they gather for another performance of Black family unity? “Thank you, Kreacher,” he called back as he descended the stairs, the air growing colder the further he went.
Of fucking course he had to bump into Sirius. Under close watch of his mother, Regulus responded to the physical assault with a cold sneer. It was the safest option, showing his displacement toward his disowned brother. But he knew that he and the other Slytherins would pay for it later when the Marauders inevitably unleashed their mischief-fueled wrath.
Seeing Sirius on the platform would have been one thing, but to physically collide with him as they went through the barrier is a different situation entirely. It felt like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke, one that left Regulus bristling and painfully aware of the tension radiating from Walburga from under her perfect pure-blood facade. He could only hope that, by the time he returned home for Christmas break, her anger would have cooled, redirected toward some other unfortunate target.
He was sitting in front of the fireplace in his dorm with Barty, Evan and Docras. Pandora would probably sneak in later that night. Despite the fact she is a Ravenclaw, Pandora is effectively an adopted Slytherin. Something like this typically wouldn’t fly in the conservative house, but Barty and Regulus gave it their blessing. Nobody in their right mind would choose to pick a fight with a Black. And Barty? Barty could be fucking terrifying when he wanted to be.
Most importantly though, she is a Rosier. With larger powers at play, nobody wanted to fuck around with alliances and risk facing the wrath of the Dark lord. As of right now, Regulus was sitting in a huge dark leather armchair, staring into the dark depths of the black lake, the occasional flash of movement passing by the long windows.
The layout of the room was considerably spacious, especially compared to reports from other houses. Adorned with green and silver, the room featured five beds, two of which, thankfully, now lay empty after some cozying up to Slughorn. This left Regulus, Evan, and Barty with the room to themselves. At the far end of the room, there were two long windows flanking a fireplace. In front of the fireplace stood two armchairs and a sofa, and Before each window
were a separate desk. While it was expected they would share, Evan and Barty used one desk, while Regulus had claimed his own space, marked with piles of books and parchment. Dorcas was reading a book on the sofa parallel to the fire, while Barty and Evan were directly across from him on the other armchair laying on top of each other chatting (completely platonically of course).
“How about you Reggie?” Barty asked, a little louder than necessary.
“Don’t call me that” deadpanned Regulus. He had drunk a tiny amount of fire whisky one night in their dorm during a little Quidditch celebration and told his friends about the ridiculous nickname Sirius had given him while they were kids. He had NEVER regretted anything more in his life. While everyone else respected the boundary and banished ‘Reggie’ from their vocabulary, Barty found a certain amount of joy in pissing off Regulus whenever he had the opportunity.
“Well?” asked Evan, pushing Barty off his lap, who fell to the floor with a thud in such an elegant pile of limbs.
Regulus sighed, “What's the question?”
“Who's the hottest Quidditch player at Hogwarts?”
“Don’t know, don’t care”
“Awwww come on Regulus, Barty thinks that James Potter is pretty hot, or maybe your brother Siri-”
“Uh uh uh” Pandora sang, closing the door to the dorm behind her. It was like she was scolding a child.
“We don’t use the S word Evan, you know that!”
“You're in a good mood” Docras chimed in, book discarded.
“Mmm” Pandora hummed, plopping herself down in Regulus' lap. The Syltherins never quite understood Regulus and Pandora's friendship. There were many betting pools floating around on whether or not they were dating, but those who knew them simply understood the two were inseparable. Regulus, who was usually averse to any kind of physical contact, made an exception for Pandora and wrapped his arms around her waist so she wouldn't fall off, muttering something about a perfectly good spot next to Docras on the sofa.
“Game time bitches!” Barty bellowed, summoning a bottle of firewhisky with a flourish and catching it midair. Regulus, pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes briefly fluttering close as he let out a quiet, resigned sigh. He hated this game, but alas it had become a somewhat inevitable tradition within their circle.
After a moment, Regulus let his hand drop back to Pandora’s waist, fingers absentmindedly playing with the oversized knitted jumper draped over her frame. He wasn’t even sure if the game was meant to be cathartic or just a way for his friends to drink themselves into oblivion, but either way, he rarely participated. Instead, he played the quiet observer, offering a sharp quip here and there, only to inevitably end the night by forcing his drunken idiots to go to bed. The game was relatively simple: each round, someone took a shot and shared something bad from their summer. Everyone then voted on who had it worse, and the rest had to take a shot. It was a rather dark form of entertainment. Evan lazily levitated the shot glasses around the common room, delivering them to their recipients as Barty poured shots generously. “Ok! Who's going first?”
It was quiet. The first round always took a moment. No one wanted to go first, but someone would ultimately speak up.
“Well you know, it was the same old stuff really, dear old dad is really following the “How to be a pureblood parent” handbook to a T.” Barty raised his eyes and gave the group a once over, slight smirk on his face. “Mothers just pissed by all the new dents in the wall. Not that it would ever stop him.”
“Ahhh yes, the authentic pureblood experience.” Barty said, mockingly raising a glass “Legacy son! Our legacy, our image!” His voice shifted from an imitation back to his own.
“Father is still displeased by the fact I'm in Slytherin, you would think the old bat would be over it by now. But he has moved on to threaten to send me to Durmstrang. Oh alas,” fake disappointment in his tone “as all know I don’t do well in the cold”. Ending his turn with a wink, he looked to the next victim.
Sure enough, they started to make their way around the circle, some responses more vague than others.
Regulus stayed silent, his fingers still absently toying with Pandora’s jumper. He glanced around the room, at the forced smirks and hollow laughter that disguised the cracks in his friends’ façades. They played this game like it was a joke, but there was something uncomfortably real about it, a shared understanding that none of them ever fully acknowledged.
Barty turned his gaze to Regulus, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What about you, Reg? Surely the Black family summer retreat had its usual brand of psychotic charm?”
In what world did Barty think Regulus was going to play? He never played. The idiot must have drunk half the fire whiskey before they even started. But Regulus didn’t flinch at the question, despite being shocked that he had been asked, his expression an unreadable mask. “Pass,” he said flatly, earning a chorus of groans from the group.
“You always pass,” Barty complained.
“And I always will,” Regulus replied, his tone cool and final.
Pandora placed a hand over his, squeezing lightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Regulus glanced at her, offering the smallest of smiles before leaning back into the shadows of the armchair. He’d sit through this ridiculous game, just like always, but he wouldn’t let them pull him into the chaos. Not tonight.
The next round began, the Firewhisky flowing more freely as the confessions grew darker and the laughter more strained. And, as always, Regulus prepared himself for the aftermath, for the drunken bodies he’d inevitably have to pick up and drag to bed.